


After Party

by whereismygarden



Category: Longmire (TV)
Genre: Episode Tag, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-22
Updated: 2015-05-22
Packaged: 2018-03-31 16:36:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3985168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/whereismygarden/pseuds/whereismygarden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I have occasionally found patrons in my bar after closing, but I never expected you to be one of them."<br/>Little side piece to go with "Ashes to Ashes."</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Party

**Author's Note:**

> Another episode tag for "Ashes to Ashes." I really like Cady/Henry and there are a few others, it seems like.

                Cady waits at the Red Pony: the crowd thins out, the food is eaten, and people have jobs in the morning. She sends Cameron on his way, tells him not to drive through the night, and retreats to the office, to tuck copies of the agreement into folders and go over them in occasional panic, as if she hadn’t checked it over for a week with Cameron and Henry and her dad.

                Henry opens the door to his office to find her asleep, curled up on the soft chair, her high heels on the floor. The light coming through the window blinds indicates that it’s midmorning already. She blinks up at him, and he gives her a smile.

                “I have occasionally found patrons in my bar after closing, but I never expected you to be one of them,” he says, and tucks a glass jar into a drawer of his desk.

                “I was waiting for you,” she says. “We had a party.”

                “I saw the banner,” he confirms. “Why are you here?”

                “I was waiting for you,” she repeats. “And I had to clean up the party.” She gets herself into a more conventional position for sitting in a chair, setting her sweater onto her knees as her spine cracks a little. Henry winces.

                “You are too young to have that,” he says, but he’s laughing. There’s a shadow of guilt, that must be for Hector, still in his eyes, but no fear. None of the anxiety that’s been carving the lines deeper into his face over these months. It’s good to see, and she smiles back at him.

                “I think my ankles started cracking when I was fifteen,” she tells him, and gets to her feet. “I should probably get home and see about getting my job back, now that I’ve been a lawyer again.”

                “Yes, that would probably be a good idea,” he says. “I am not hiring currently, so I cannot help you.” He tilts his head a little, letting her see the happiness in his eyes. “Thank you for standing by me through all of this.” She laughs at him for a second, because he must know that she was on the edge of panic and collapse through all of it.

                “Right, well, next time you’ll get a different and better lawyer,” she gets back into her shoes and sweater, “because I’m going back to family law.”

                “There will be no next time,” he says, quietly, but in the voice that has stone underneath. “But if there were, I would want no one but you.” She blinks a little at that, and steps forward to give him a hug, wrapping her arms around his leg. In her recently woken and tired yet victorious state, she allows herself the indulgence of breathing in the smell of him: currently, a little sweat and the windy cold scent of mountain grass. She puts her face against his shoulder, drawing out this particular embrace because she has the excuse of being his goddaughter and his lawyer, both roles which mean she is very happy for him.

                She has no excuse for the kiss she gives him when she lifts her head, before she lets go of him. He doesn’t kiss back, but it is quick, for all that her stomach flutters. His eyes are wide and a little shocked, and his hands are very still around her back.

                “Cady,” he says quietly, but thank god there’s no touch of admonition in his voice. She couldn’t handle that, she thinks.

                “What can I say,” she says, shrugging, stepping back. “I have been known to make impulsive decisions based on my emotions in the past, so there is definitely precedent for this.” Henry folds his arms, looks to the side, down. “I’m sorry,” she says, her voice clipped and quick. “That was inappropriate of me.”

                “Cady,” he says again, and she opens the door to the outside. She wants to go home, where she’ll be able to bang her head on her desk and scream a little about her terrible terrible luck with romantic interests. “ _Cady_ ,” she shuts the door, leans against it, and gives him an even look.

                “Are you going to say something?” she asks. His face is tight, but he’s not angry, she doesn’t think: she’s seen him angry often enough these months, no matter that he likes to be stoic about it until he snaps and does something reckless. Well, she can understand that, but she’s still sure he isn’t angry right now.

                “I am not sure what is the best thing for me to say,” he says, and his hands drift together as if he wishes he had something between them. He clasps them tightly together.

                “If this is about you trying to say what you think is best for me, that is _not_ the best thing right now,” she says. “The best thing is you being honest.”

                “About what?” he asks. “About the fact that I am your godfather, or that I am over twenty years your senior, or that your father is my best friend?” She folds her arms, looks down, and can’t help the small, persistent smile that’s sneaking onto her lips, so she lets it loose.

                “I can’t help but notice that you not being interested in me was not mentioned.” Henry shifts, just slightly, and looks to the side.

                “Yes, well, I am being honest,” he says, sounding dry, but there’s an unsteadiness in his voice that betrays his earnestness. Cady smiles at him, from under her brows and lashes, unable for some reason to raise her head. She tosses her chin up, because she’s a grown woman, not a girl with a crush—not anymore—and gives him a real smile. There’s maybe a trace of trepidation in it, and in the one he gives her in return, but they’re entitled to that.

                “Want to kiss me?” she says, setting her bag down against the low table.

                “Well, yes,” he says, and she lets him walk to her. His mouth is slow and cautious but certain, and she takes his face in her hands, slides her tongue against his, and bites a little at his lower lip. It only takes a few minutes of sighing at the feeling of his shoulders and back under her hands and his hair between her fingers while they kiss to have her breathing hard. He’s a little more circumspect: her hands wandering all over his upper body aren’t enough to get him to touch her anywhere but her face and hair.

                “Henry, are you attracted to me?” she asks, stopping them for a second. He gives her a look, and uses his hand to brush a trail of spit from the side of his mouth: his or hers, or both, she can’t say.

                “I think this situation is evidence that I am attracted to you,” he replies. She puts her hands on his hips, drawing him closer.

                “It’s not the eighth grade dance. No need to leave room for Jesus.” He takes a step forward, so that she’s backed against the wall, and she grins and bites her lip at him. He wraps one hand around the back of her neck and kisses her, deeply, the other hand on the small of her back. She’s reasonably certain she hasn’t been kissed like that possibly _ever_ in her life, and she actually feels weak at the knees when he pulls away. That’s a new sensation for her when she’s also sober.

                “I think I have gotten myself into trouble with you,” he says, voice low and smug as he regards her catching her breath. “But do not underestimate me either, Cady.” She straightens herself, combs her fingers through her hair. Her messy appearance can be explained away by the fact that she slept on an armchair in her clothes last night, perhaps.

                “Clearly I shouldn’t,” she says, and she sees the guarded hesitance in his eyes, knows there are multitudes of reasons to take it slow. Reasons that are probably going to be walking into town soon, if they aren’t here yet. She gives him a smile, one that says she gets it. He knows her well enough to receive and understand, and straightens a wisp of her hair as she picks up her bag again. They’ll give it a few weeks of slow, even if she wants to grab him and drag him back to her house, or his, or maybe that armchair again. He’s been driving around all night, ankle bracelet gone, and she has to shower and get her job back.

                “I will see you soon,” he says, and kisses her cheek. She gives him a hug again, without intentions, and is glad that she lost her job in the first place, so she could do a dismal job as a defense attorney and fall in love.


End file.
